‘I’m told you have a message for me.’

He spoke aristocratic Talian with a hint of an accent she couldn’t place. As out of place on this island as gold in a fish’s mouth.

He waited, expressionless. Kiska found her voice. ‘In my shirt.’ She tried to raise her arm but only wrenched her wrist.

He raised one hand. ‘May I?’

‘Yeah – yes.’

He wore black leather gloves, his fingers long and thin.

‘No!’ barked the bodyguard. He yanked her away by the back of her collar then rummaged at her shirt. His hand brushed her small breast. She smiled to unnerve him but his eyes remained empty of emotion.

‘Hattar . . .’ her target murmured reprovingly.

She peered up at him. ‘Yes. Hattar.’

He found the scroll then shoved her over and pressed one knee down on her shoulder. His weight drove all breath from her. The scroll crackled as he tore at it.

‘Hattar,’ the man sighed, ‘you cannot read.’

Hattar grunted something.

‘Let her up.’

Unwillingly, he eased his weight. She gasped a deep breath, choked on dust and dirt she sucked in. Her side ached, pressed firmly into the uneven stones.

‘I will speak with her.’

‘Hunh?’

‘Raise her up.’

‘My Lord . . .’

Silence. Kiska waited. A look from the Lord perhaps? A gesture? Hattar knelt within her sight. He held a wicked curved blade to her face. His other hand twisted a grip in her hair. He brought his scarred nut-brown face close to hers.

’You and my master will speak,’ he whispered. ‘But this dagger,’ and he wagged it before her eyes, ‘if you twitch, it will reach your heart through your back before you are even aware of it tickling your pretty soft skin. Do you understand me?’

She nodded, wide-eyed.

Hattar returned her nod. He raised her up and shifted her round. His master held the scroll in one hand and was tapping it against the other. The lips were curved downward ever so slightly. ‘My apologies for Hattar. He takes his duties very seriously.’

Kiska almost nodded, stopped herself. ‘Yes. He does.’

The man sighed, rubbed his fingers over his eyes. ‘What is your aunt’s name?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Agayla.’

‘What does she do at Winter’s Turn – Rider’s Retreat, I understand you sometimes call it here.’

Kiska stared. Had she heard that right? Winter’s Turn? She almost shrugged but felt a prick to one side of her spine and held herself rigid. ‘Ah, she . . . she consults the Dragons deck for the coming year.’

‘Yes. Many do. And?’

A test. He was challenging her obviously. Why Winter’s Turn? What was so . . . she remembered then. One eve sneaking down the stairs and watching from the cover of the landing while Agayla sat up all night, from midnight’s bell till dawn’s light. The side to side woosh of the shuttle. The click and rattle of the loom. Weaving. All night. Kiska licked her dry lips. ‘She weaves.’